


Lilies

by bangbangbatarang



Series: Value Drift [1]
Category: Deus Ex (Video Games), Deus Ex: Black Light - James Swallow, Deus Ex: Human Revolution, Deus Ex: Mankind Divided
Genre: Domesticity for the dysfunctional, Established Relationship, Frank thinks hating himself is a kink, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-26
Updated: 2019-01-12
Packaged: 2019-05-28 09:03:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 2,731
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15045563
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bangbangbatarang/pseuds/bangbangbatarang
Summary: Business as usual. But not for long.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> CW: this fic explores r*pe fantasies. Please tread carefully.
> 
> Tags will be added along with chapters.
> 
> Kudos are cherished & comments are encouraged, forgive me Father for I have sinned.

It’s the scent that hits him first: sickly sweet, a fragrance that’s heady and fetid and cloying. Wafting in through the window when a familiar figure materialises on the fire-escape, no more than an errant blur to cross the sill; darting in the monitor’s reflection and brought into momentary focus. Frank catches a flash of black leather on Kevlar before both coat and carbon limbs tessellate into nothingness, the scent lingering still; scoffs to himself and goes back to baby-talking an uncooperative proxy.

So, it’s going to be one of those nights.

A night when the ever-elusive and occasionally cowardly Adam Jensen will camouflage with the walls rather than take the bait for another round of bickering. Employ avoidance strategies against one-upmanship, because neither of them will be willing back down from the unspoken challenge of who can best and who can be bested. Instead they’ll play passive-aggressive hide-and-seek: Frank will inevitably direct insults to likely locations—the bed, the couch, the kitchen counter—just to be startled out of his tirade by a voice behind him. _Talking to yourself is a sure sign of madness, Francis._

Jensen seems to think that joke never gets old, despite how many times it’s repeated to the punch-line.

Yeah, yeah. Very fucking funny. Frank sneers around his cigarette to where he suspects the other man is lurking, having followed muffled footsteps and shifting shadows. Whatever Jensen’s been up to has left him pungent: blew up a florist’s, by the smell of him.

“Cold-shouldering won’t make me admit I’m wrong, Adam,” Frank calls out. Puffs smoke, hoping to blow the other man’s cover by making him cough. “Because I’d be lying if I said I was.”

No response.

He probably deserves the silent treatment for being a bastard over the past few days, and he behaved especially poorly this afternoon. Snarled over Infolink without rhyme or reason, tired to the point of irritation; to the point he said some things he knows he’ll regret tomorrow. Such moods grip him when he’s under pressure, over-stressed, under-slept. Add to that the fact he forgot to eat—expects to get a lecture on that later—and his patience for this game is wearing thin; has him flicking the screen to sleep, to wander from the study, to show how uninterested he is.

“Screw off, screwball.” The lighter bounces off a nearby bookcase, skitters into a cobwebbed corner. “I might be the felon in this partnership, but you’re not getting an Alford plea out of me.”

He can’t recall what they fought over, but like hell he’s going to be the one to surrender.


	2. Chapter 2

_Surrender_. Hah.

What a goddamned concept, and how rarely it’s amounted to much more than standard, romantic norms; plenty of tender, gentle sex. Not that Jensen’s not adept at reducing him to a shuddering, messy wreck. Very adept. Objectively an expert, from start to finish, with those hands and that mouth and...

The cigarette sizzles out, drowned by milk dregs in a cereal bowl. It’s not that Frank’s complaining when they’re in an almost-normal relationship. Not aloud, anyway. Sometimes, quietly, though not that often.

 _Hit me_ , he’s whispered, and Jensen kissed him instead. _Ruin me_ , he’s begged, and then Jensen made love to him, slow and earnest and simple, until the consequences were close enough to destruction that he couldn’t care. _Punish me_ is the one request that passed the test: unsurprisingly, according to the other man, who claimed that Frank’s asking for a smack on the ass even when he’s not demanding it.

Which was a pleasant development, but unfortunately as far as they’ve gone in that regard.

He thought living with someone who can become invisible on a whim—can put a fist through brick, move unnoticed through a crowd, can and does hurl vending machines without compunction—would let them explore at least a couple of his problematic proclivities. But lo and behold, Jensen harbours a sum-total of zero taboo-worthy kinks; can’t conceive of why Frank would crave certain scenarios. Actions. Brazen molestation. Doesn’t understand that when he says _back off_ , _stop_ , _no_ , he’s asking the very opposite.

Now that’s probably something they should talk about, but he knows that Jensen is vanilla to the bone; would sooner call him a head-case than indulge him. Love is a many splendid, horrendously stupid thing, and Frank’s not crazy.

He feels a little insane, wanting to relive the early days all over again: not the details, just the fervour, the urgency. When getting handsy in the Tech Lab was part and parcel of whatever they were becoming to each other, undisclosed and unmentioned and unavoidable. When fighting turned into fucking as inevitably as day turned into dark and coffee went cold and there’d never be enough cigarettes left not to share. When snapping too much would let slip how much he cared, so he pushed and prodded and poked until Jensen would snap, pin him against the desk and shut him up, one hand clamped around both his wrists and the second over his mouth.

Some of the details. All of the fervour. Maybe even more urgency.

Yeah, this constitutes crazy. He’s stopped dead at the threshold to the bedroom; forgot what he was doing for a second there, skin suddenly a size too tight for his body. Air too heavy. Shirt thrown blindly into the room when the neckline begins to throttle him. The AC must be on the blink: he’ll fix that later; sweat Jensen out first. All the decent hiding places in this part of the apartment are stuffy nooks, augments generate waste-heat when overworked, and it’s amusing to see the other man reappear red-faced and breathless without outside contribution.

He slides another cigarette from the pack. He’s really got to stop.


	3. Chapter 3

It’s the fear that strikes him next. A head-spin on the inhale bringing clammy palms, a prickle to the nape of his neck, belly-deep unease. A gut feeling that he’s due for some comeuppance, and should anticipate being dealt it when his back is turned.

_You know. Like now._

But when he spins on the spot, he’s greeted by an empty hall. No Jensen, leaned near the doorframe with a smirk; no come-hither look that may flash Frank’s way when lenses retract. Nothing unexpected except that scent; could be vanilla with its notes of sugar, if not for its undercurrent of blood.

Which isn’t odd what with the other man’s daily exploits, but he’s found that Jensen’s skin holds a particular tang beyond the evidentiary. One that’s immediately recognisable, a metaphoric signature. Smells to Frank like rain on tarmac and rich, fresh rolling tobacco—an expensive, rum-infused brand; a guilty pleasure that he’s never mentioned—congested most potently in the hollow of throat and where augments adjoin authentic. Then some days of gas grenades and electrostatic; on others of honey-flavoured breakfast food. An unmistakable musk when Frank goes lower, sinks to his knees...

What a pity Jensen’s performed a close-quarters disappearing act. Frank’s sympathy is strictly for himself.

It’s been a while since he infuriated the other man into fucking him—been even longer since he had any need to—though he’d rather tonight were one of _those_ nights. Rarer than the former; more welcome than endless arguments and evenings in front of separate screens. Better by miles than going to bed angry, only to lose sleep. There are many better reasons to stay awake than staying angry.

He sees he’s stood just outside the bedroom yet, and glances back to the scene of domestic disorder. Clothes strewn without consideration. Drawers ajar. Bedding piled in peaks from when the pair of them crawled out this morning. If those sheets could speak they’d shout as loudly as he has when buried against them, writhing beneath the other man.

 _Settle petal_ , he can nearly hear Jensen saying around broad, bright grin: a smile as taunting as it is fond.

He snorts. Blows a stray strand from his face with a huff, breath ruffling his hair awry. Takes another drag, prepared to ask whether Jensen underwent metanoia and brought him flowers—has taken it upon himself to say sorry so that Frank’s own apology is issued more easily, a little less grudgingly—before his voice catches and his concentration fades again.

He’s got it bad, but he’s still mad over whatever they berated each other about.

The scent clouds his senses, makes his mind swim. Stalks him through the hall and into the sunken lounge, sharp as death and as tempting as bare flesh. Just the right side of rotten, though barely: he’s reminded of the overripe aroma of oranges, right before they turn. Thinks of rind blown green and grey and blue with mould, the same mottled shade and abstract bloom of two-day-old bruises on a collarbone, hipbone, cheekbone, tailbone. Imagines membranes bursting with fermented juice, teeth sinking in to tear, devour. Thinks of an acidic sting to a paper-cut, a raw cuticle, a graze; carpet-burn on his palms and his kneecaps and ass.

He exhales. Whatever it is, it’s not vanilla.


	4. Chapter 4

Like the stillness that precedes an explosion, it’s too quiet.

The TV has timed out, snowed into static by the disengaged pirate frequency: no Picus permitted here. He leaves the screen on for the light alone—unlike some people he can’t see far in the dark—and manages to make it across the lounge before he’s derailed; drifts back to fruit and bruises. The skin of an apple, intact before the first bite. The pinprick scars from thousands of Neuropozyne shots. Any second now he’ll turn around and something, maybe, hopefully, will have changed.

It’s not uncommon for the other man to avoid him, but this is new. A sense of being intently watched and unable to tell from where, that should register as threatening on an instinctive level. It does—tingles the base of his spine, tightens muscles, churns his stomach as insistently as making it flip and simmer—but the danger is half the appeal. Makes him want to suggest to the seemingly vacant room, _Le_ _t’s pretend you’re a burglar and I’m the unsuspecting, timid victim of a home-invasion and no, I don’t have any valuables but I’m sure we can come to a compromise._

So. Yeah, there’s that.

Just when he assumed he’d plumbed the depths of his perversions, pinpointed all the kinks that twist within him, he discovers he gets hot under the collar for assailant fantasies, spelled with a capital _R_. Assault role-play that’s not really too far removed from their reality, except that the other man is a bastion of morality and their building is fortified—entrances fixed with biometric readers; double-glazed, bulletproof glass—and he _could_ ask, but that would ruin the mood.

He laughs, self-deprecating, self-hating. He’d pass that off as a joke if it landed too badly: _Promise I won’t call the cops after you’re done with me._

Oh, who is he kidding? Jensen would emerge only to counter with, _W_ _hat the actual fuck, Francis_. Would be affronted by the fact that this is something he’s interested in, averse to the point of offence, because the other man doesn’t just tolerate his existence but venerates it. Has said that Frank’s the last good thing left in life; the biggest impetus to stay safe. Someone worth fighting for, warts and all. Claimed that there’d be no use saving the world if he weren’t in it, which filled his heart until he felt it might break; had his eyes brimming, fixed on the ceiling.

Stand near enough to an idol and, in the right light, you too appear to be made of gold.

Whatever Jensen sees in him has eluded him all his life: it must be there somewhere, only revealed when he’s not looking for it. He’s not so unwise to raise the question of his inherent worth by admitting he thinks such monstrous thoughts. Silently identifying ideas that have been amorphous before now—scattered and erratic, shadows of a true scope, the tip of an iceberg above the waterline—thrown into stark relief by whatever’s in the air.

“Adam,” he says. Not asking for an answer, nor acknowledgment, and unsurprised when he receives neither.

On reflex he summons a scene, slithering insidious and quick from his back-brain to the forefront. He longs for a scuffle, a tussle, to be tackled flat and winded. Made motionless and kept trapped, where he would be ravished and ravaged. Unable to stand let alone walk in the aftermath, legs shaking and all the spaces between them sore. Face against the floor, long after the other man had finished with him.

The neglected cigarette hangs from his lips, burned out. He feels unstable, unsteady. Boy scout wouldn’t ever lay a hand on him, no matter how hard Frank may force it.

Pity, that.


	5. Chapter 5

It’s a hand that grabs him last, stopping his own before it can go into his pants.

Both motions alarm his heart to leap and his breath to shorten, cigarette dropped from his open mouth and every muscle strung high-tensile, a split-second’s panic before recognition kicks in and he relaxes back into reality. He hadn’t noticed his palm wander down of its own accord: nor, more importantly, that Jensen has given up the ghost to reappear in his periphery. Now stood near enough to be radiant, venting energy through synthetic and organic skin alike; to make Frank’s blush, when it spreads, all the warmer.

He’s not sure whether to thank the dark for affording him some dignity, or to curse it for allowing Jensen to creep up on him.

His face scrunches into an approximation of dismay, though he can’t hold it for long when cybernetic eyes glow innocently at him, micro-components swirling to take him in through the gloom. Damnably handsome bastard and those stealth-mods.

“Hey, Francis.” Finally, an answer. Finally, something’s changed. Once he’d have grouched at the use of his full name: nowadays he’s astounded by the sway that tone has over him. Two words and he’s woozy, just shy of swooning. God, he’s the  _worst_.

The other man doesn’t mess around by subvocalising: never does when it’s just the pair of them. He can appreciate the reticence to use certain technologies in such a setting; doesn’t approve of the root-cause— _you’re augmented not malformed, you exceptional prick_ —but he can abide by it. Doesn’t think Jensen will ever know how appallingly beautiful Frank finds him.

“Fancy seeing you here,” he drawls in return.

Jensen’s pretty head hooks over his shoulder to shoot him an entertained sidelong look, an arm wrapping around him to play with the waistband of his sweats. “I _live_ here.”

He grunts, non-committal, and rests back: whatever was left of his earlier cold-front has melted along with his resolve, his resistance. Jensen’s very presence is suffocating, intoxicating, inescapable as the grip around his wrist. How easily he’s undone while encircled by these prosthetics, even after all this time; how excited he is by their steadiness, a thumb slowly stroking back and forth up his forearm as ring and forefinger measure his thready pulse.

Sometimes he gets the sense that the contents of his head are so transparent that he’s an open book. Sometimes he wishes he were more readily readable so that he wouldn’t have to ask for what he wants.

He turns his captured hand to test just how unflinching the hold is on him, while his second tries to guide Jensen towards where he wants him to no avail. His reaction to such restraint is interesting, if predictable at this juncture: his masochism rearing against the romance, artificial pupils expanding wide and bright in the corner of his eye when he steps to check whether that cigarette is as unsalvageable as it appears to be.

“Careful,” Jensen warns as Frank grinds it out with the soft of his sole, frowning when he finds that the damn thing is dead and he’s escaped unburned. “You could hurt yourself.”

He gives Jensen a look of his own, laden with impatience. As if to say, _that’s the point, Adam,_ though he knows his heart-rate gave him away by going through the roof at the prospect then mere mention of pain.

The other man chuckles: a wry sound that grates his nerves like sandpaper. Maybe Jensen’s a better reader than Frank gives him credit for. 


End file.
